


(and i keep forgetting we aren't) meant to be

by kagome_angel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Domestic Bliss (Only Not Really), F/M, Mild Language, Mild Spoilers Maybe, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-War, What is this Happy Ending that you Speak of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She never knows the right answer anymore, hasn't for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(and i keep forgetting we aren't) meant to be

**Author's Note:**

> I... don't even know, honestly. I haven't written Harry Potter fic in probably ten years or more, and I've never actually finished one for this particular series (number of attempted fics total prior to this one: uno). Plus, the only one I tried to write before was Harry/Ron. 
> 
> I've always loved the idea of Harry and Hermione together; I will go down with this ship. Here is my tiny contribution. I hope you all enjoy. Comments make my world go round; thank you in advance for reading! :)

**I.**  
Harry marries the girl with the red hair; Hermione marries the boy with the red hair and they are present at each other's weddings, of course—why wouldn't they be? 

(If there are pained, perhaps pleading glances shared between them each time, they speak nothing of it later.)

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the crowd is told and she knows that Harry's breath hitches because hers had done the same when she was the one having to hold back words that shan't, can't be spoken. 

(And forever is a very long time.)

 **II.**  
They are the ones who suffer in relative silence—the ones that don't burden the rest of the world with their griefs and their tightly-reined rage (it is simply the type of people they are). They don't even speak of it to each other, but they don't have to. He knows just as she knows, and the world keeps turning and they plaster smiles on their faces that _are_ genuine to a degree--

\--and then they see each other in a crowded room, in Harry's and Ginny's kitchen, in her living room (hers and Ron's, she has to remind herself, because this space was meant for two even if it didn't turn out the way it should've) and they can see all of those repressed emotions mirrored in each other's eyes.

A glance. A pained smile. Exchanged greetings. And the shared knowledge that _this_ could have been so much _more_.

 **III.**  
“I'm pregnant,” Ginny tells her over tea, and she's smiling so happily that Hermione can't help but smile back even though something inside her feels like it's shattering. She is torn because while she truly is happy for her friend ( _friends_ , she reminds herself, plural, because Harry is the father), she feels an inexplicable sense of loss that she knows has no right to be there.

Months later, and she's sharing news of her own pregnancy with Ginny, whose delight over the announcement is evident in her eyes (and pregnancy looks amazing on her; she's glowing so beautifully), and Harry and Ron are there too. She's already told Ron, of course, and he's still grinning like a madman.

Harry's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Neither does Hermione's.

 **IV.**  
They sit on the same bench in the park and sip on coffee, watching their children play. They don't talk about what might have been or what should have been or what could have been if they'd only let it—it is a worthless conversation, and so they don't admit to their mistakes even when they _do_ with every small smile and every innocent, comforting touch.

They talk about other things instead; work and their children and Ginny's new haircut and Ron's penchant for leaving sweet little voicemails for her during his lunch break. 

They fill the silence with talk of their day-to-day lives instead of uttering words which are far better left unsaid, even as his fingers trace over the scarred letters on her inner arm (they know each other's scars even better than they know their own), and they even talk about darker things, like how much their spouses have lost along the way--

She glances down to find that she's linked her fingers with his without even thinking about it, as if it is a reflex, something natural and normal. Both of them stare at mismatching wedding bands and pull away at the same moment, nursing their coffees in silence.

Another thing they refuse to talk about: All that they themselves have lost.

 **V.**  
Sometimes she lets herself forget that they aren't meant to be. It makes things easier and it makes things ten thousand times more difficult, especially on those nights when Ron pulls her close and all she can think of is _“Maybe we should stay here, Harry. Grow old.”_

She is well aware of how selfish she can be, how unfair she can be, and of how every crack and jagged crevice in her heart holds the memory of what was (never) meant to be.

 **VI.**  
They didn't become martyrs during the war; they didn't die for their cause even though they were willing to. 

So why is it that she feels like one, sometimes? Why is it that, even though the war has been over for years, she occasionally feels like she is the dead one in a world of living things? 

(She is dead some days, walking and breathing but dead, merely going through the motions.)

She hates this part of herself—the part that gives in to the sorrow, the part that won't accept all the love and joy she has _now_ , the part that constantly reminds her that it could've been different, that she should not have had to settle. 

Hermione cannot sleep when thoughts like these plague her, and so she finds herself dialing Harry's number at two in the morning, nearly crying in relief when he answers. 

“Hermione, you know I--”

“I know,” she cuts him off, the lump of emotion in her throat making speech difficult. “I know.” 

And it's enough. It _has_ to be.

 **VII.**  
Harry's name on her tongue tastes sweet and reminds her of Butterbeer, of chocolate, of cream cheese icing. 

Her name on Harry's lips is her undoing, and reminds her of sunshine, of spring, of flowers beginning to bloom. 

(And of the days when she always had the right answer.)

 **VIII.**  
Her name on Ron's lips leaves her feeling cold when it shouldn't (it isn't fair to him) and reminds her of winter, of the dead and the dying, of too-short days and seemingly-endless nights. 

Ron's name on her tongue tastes like regret and reminds her of wrong choices, of bitterness, of jealousy and brittle smiles. 

(She never knows the right answer anymore, hasn't for years.)

 **IX.**  
You cannot mourn the loss of something that you never had in the first place. 

The thing is... they've always had it and they don't know how to let it go.

 **X.**  
“What would you say if I were to tell you that I'm getting the hell out of here?” he asks her, emerald eyes shining, and she wants to laugh and she wants to sob. This is an old, familiar tune on a broken record, a song that was never finished, never meant to be written. 

Perhaps in a different time, in a different life... perhaps if he had not been The Boy Who Lived and she had not been that clever girl that had had to grow up far too quickly... perhaps then--

\--Perhaps if they had a time turner--

But no, she knows that they would probably do everything all over again exactly as they've already done it. They'd make all of the _wrong_ choices for all of the _right_ reasons, and they'd be sitting here together just like they are now, both of them in their mid-thirties and wishing things had gone differently even though both of them know that they wouldn't have.

She plays along anyway, and says the same thing she'd said to him years ago under different circumstances. She tells him the same thing she'll always tell him even though she knows he won't let her go through with it this time either: “I'll go with you.” Her voice breaks and tears sting her eyes. 

He grabs her hand and she lets him. Both of them need this, these little moments that they know will amount to nothing in the end. These little moments of pretend. Because in these moments, they are seven again and they believe in magic the way little children should; they are seventeen again and they believe that true love will conquer all. 

She lets the tears fall and she squeezes his hand as tightly as she dares, because she knows that eventually, she's going to have to let (him) go.

 

~END~


End file.
